Mornings: Air Raid!

This story took place when the kids were small, probably between 1965 and 1970. We lived in El Cajon, California, a suburb of San Diego. We were heading back to Kansas to visit family and friends. Our party consisted of my wife, Pat, my mother, Margaret, our twin boys, Russ and Doug, our daughter, Terri, and myself.

Our strategy on these trips was to leave the evening before and drive through the night while the kids slept. That reduced the number of times we had to listen to the age-old question “Are we there yet?”

The sun came up and we had been making good time. We were driving through a small town in New Mexico when we spotted a small park. The kids were waking up and were hungry, so we decided to stop. We had a big cooler in the trunk filled with breakfast and lunch stuff so we could stop and eat and get back on the road without wasting any time. Mom was keeping an eye on the kids as they ran around like little wild people. Pat and I were getting the food out of the trunk and setting the table. Pat, who was the one that always noticed birds and animals, was watching a hawk as it circled the area. The hawk was just cruising around, probably looking for breakfast. Its circle carried it right over where we were standing, and all of a sudden, it was “bombs away!” Pat was standing there, and, as a woman of her time, was fixed up with “big hair.” The hawk, with perfect accuracy, dropped the biggest, stinkiest load of crap right on to Pat’s hair-do. She was screaming and swiping at her head with a paper towel while the kids shrieked and pointed at her. My mom was laughing so hard I thought she would have a stroke. Pat finally got the evil smelling mess out of her hair and got herself quieted down. We eventually finished out breakfast and got back on the road. Needless to say, we were all wide awake.

Dave Thomas
May 21, 2020

Mornings: Breakfast

I love mornings and I enjoy breakfasts. I know that some people don’t eat breakfast, and I feel that they are missing the boat. I want my car to have adequate amounts of gas, oil, and water to ensure peak performance. By the same token, I want my body to start the day with what it needs to operate properly.

I’ll have to admit that 99% of the time, my breakfasts are not too exciting. For the last 8 or 9 years, I’ve had Cheerios for breakfast. They are quick and easy and though bland, I don’t get tired of them. The “flake” cereals taste like cardboard and are pretty disgusting. I ate oatmeal for 3 or 4 years, but got tired of it. When I fix them, it’s just Cheerios (1/2 cup) and milk. No sugar or sweetener. Part of the reason for my regimen is that I have been a Type 1 diabetic for 55 years, and I got tired of figuring out how much insulin I would need to cover the different breakfasts if I ate a varied diet. I’ll have to admit that when Pat fixes my Cheerios, she adds blueberries and bananas, and it’s mighty good.

When we go out for breakfast, I go for the whole shot. I order 2 eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and coffee. The exception to the aforementioned comes when we are going to a Mexican restaurant. Then, it’s “Huevos Rancheros!” For those of you who haven’t been fortunate enough to have them, the term means “ranch eggs” and is the name for the breakfast. Here’s the way the meal is fixed: A tortilla is warmed or steamed and placed on the plate. Two fried eggs are added (I like mine over medium) and placed on the tortilla. Next, the whole thing is covered with fresh salsa. The salsa should be “mild” or “medium.” If the salsa is too hot, you can’t taste the eggs. Next, add refried beans and rice on the side. There you have it. You can use flour or corn tortillas. The only way you can improve this fantastic meal is to use organic corn tortillas.

Since we are discussing Huevos Rancheros, I must confess that I have them for lunch once a week during normal (no Covid19 virus) times. My wife, Pat, and her friend, Judy, like to drive up the coast and have breakfast. They look at the ocean and the surfers and the people on the beach and relax and enjoy themselves. On those days, our daughter, Terri, comes over and takes care of me. My vision is impaired and though I can walk around the house without bumping into anything, that’s about it. Terri drives over and picks me up and takes me to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. When we get there, she goes in and orders Huevos Rancheros “to go.” Then we return home for the feast. That way, I’ve got something I like to eat, and I’ve had an outing, too.

I’ve never been a brunch guy. That’s mainly because I’m too cheap. They charge you 4 or 5 times what a regular breakfast would cost and it doesn’t seem worth it. I’ve only attended one brunch that I really enjoyed and thought was spectacular. Terri and our son-in-law, Steve, and the grandkids, Christie and David, had invited Pat and I to go to Maui with them. I think we were staying at the Westin. When we came downstairs in the morning, we were greeted by the most amazing tropical spread you can imagine. Besides the normal scrambled eggs and bacon and sausage, there was a complete array of fruits and juices and anything else you can imagine. We sat on the patio and happily gorged ourselves as we enjoyed the Pacific Ocean and the tradewinds.

Dave Thomas

5/6/2020

Mornings: The Early Bird

In June of 1950, I was 13 years old and fixing to be 14 in August. My Grandpa, George F. Sicks had invited me to spend the summer with him in Arizona. Granddad was living in the town of Safford which is on the east side of the state.

I caught a bus and headed west. This was big stuff for a kid that had hardly been out of Augusta, Kansas. Grandpa’s second wife, Mina, went to Los Angeles to visit her sister for the summer. Before she left, she made me show her that I could cook a steak and fix potatoes and vegetables to go with it.

Grandpa was a farm equipment salesman with an Allis-Chalmers dealer. He called on the farms and ranches in the area sometimes. One Friday afternoon, Grandpa came home from work early and said that we were going to the farm. The farm was clear down in the southeast corner of the state, a couple of miles from the New Mexico border and just west of the town of San Simon. Simon is pronounced in the Spanish way, with a long “o.” You say it like the girl’s name, “Simone.”

We left Safford, heading south, and in a couple of hours were in southern Arizona. We merged with U.S. Highway 80 (now Interstate 10), and headed east. San Simon is in Chiricuhua County and is a part of the Sonoran Desert. You can see for miles across the desert country, clear up the Chiricahua Mountains. This is the land of Cochise and Geronimo, so you need to keep your eyes open.

The farm adjoins the highway on the south side, so you can see the whole place from the car. It is 120 acres of steaming hot desert with no tilled land or much of anything. There is a one room adobe house, and that’s about it. The redeeming feature is that there are two Artesian wells on the place- one hot and one cold. Granddad had fixed up the hot well so you could take a shower outside. He built a screen around it so you could have a little privacy from the people driving down the highway.

Granddad showed me around the place and we messed around for the rest of the evening. He called the place his “farm,” but I believe that it was what would now be considered as the equivalent of a “man-cave.” It was a place for him to putter around.

Granddad and I spent the evening out in the yard where it was pretty nice after the sun went down. When we went to bed, I lucked out and got the cot. A little after sunrise the next morning, I was awakened by a pecking noise. I sat up in bed, wondering what was going on. Grandpa, who had awakened also said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s my road-runner buddy telling me that it’s time for his breakfast.” We got up and got dressed and Grandpa went to a cabinet and got a sack of chicken feed. He said, “A year or so ago, Mina went to visit her sister in L.A., so I stayed down here for a month. After eating, I would throw the table scraps out in the yard because I knew some critter would eat them. It turned out that the roadrunner was the lucky creature that came. He enjoyed the food and depended on me to provide it. If I didn’t show up quick enough in the mornings, he figured out that he could peck on the window and get my attention. I guess he has remembered our routine since then.” Granddad took a cup of grain and threw it out into the yard. The roadrunner scurried around like a chicken in the barnyard intent on getting every last bite. It’s been 70 years now, and I still think of that roadrunner from time to time. Who knew that a bird could think or reason or remember anything?

Now, I don’t speak the roadrunner’s language, but I will try to express in English what the bird might have been thinking. Imagine that it is evening and that the roadrunner has been craising all day and comes by the farm in the evening. He thinks, “There is a car. The man must be here in the house. I like the man. He feeds me.” The next morning, the roadrunner is in the yard. “Where’s my breakfast? I’m hungry! The man must be in the house. Last year I figured out how to get his attention, so I know now how to get him. I’ll jump up on the window ledge and peck on the window. Yep, he’s getting up, so it won’t be long until breakfast.” Then, a little later, “That was delicious. Now that I don’t have to spend the morning foraging for food, I’m going to go down the road a piece and find that roadrunner chick and see if she wants to go jogging.”

Dave Thomas

4/30/2020

Mornings: The Red Capsule

Pat and I were on the way to Paris and London, and we were accompanied by our grandson, Jeff, who had just graduated from high school. Jeff was good company, and we soon learned that he had another attribute that made him an invaluable traveling companion. His young eyes had the vision of an eagle, and he could read flight schedules on the walls clear across the airport terminal. We arrived in Paris, checked into the hotel, had dinner, and walked around the city for a while.

The next morning, I was up first. I got cleaned up and dressed and went downstairs in search of a cup of coffee. The hotel served a continental breakfast, but they weren’t open yet. I went out front and discovered that the hotel was next to a deli. A man was putting up a couple of tables and chairs on the sidewalk, so I asked him if I could get a cup of coffee. He pointed to one of the chairs and indicated that I should sit down. He went inside and soon returned with a cup of boiling hot water sitting on a saucer. Next to the cup was a red thing that looked like a capsule. I paid the man and thanked him, all while staring at the capsule thing. I didn’t know if I should toss this thing into the cup or if I should try to open it. What a dilemma! I had been a coffee drinker for 50 years and had never been faced with a situation like this. After staring at the thing for a while, I decided it probably wasn’t soluble. I picked at the capsule thing for a while and was finally able to pour it’s contents into the hot water. I stirred the cup and began to inhale the delicious aroma of a fine cup of coffee. I took a sip and was rewarded with a taste of the richest and strongest cup of coffee I had ever had. These French people know what they are doing. You folks of a more cosmopolitan nature may be used to this kind of stuff, but it was overwhelming to a small-town boy like me.

Dave Thomas

04/18/2020

Mornings: Sedona

Step out the door of your motel at sun-up in Sedona, Arizona and feel your mouth drop open. When the sun hits those red rocks, it jars your senses. This must be the place that God and Mother Nature put in some overtime. As the sun strikes the multitude of facets on the side of the mountain, you see one brilliant shade of red after another.

The evenings are just as grand, but much more subtle. As the sun sets, the color of the mountains fades from bright red to shades of purple and then to grays and then to black. I don’t have words to describe the beauty of the area. Go see for yourself. It’s a magical place.

Dave Thomas
04/18/2020

Mornings: Company For Breakfast

Pat and I had gotten up just a few minutes before and were just sitting down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. We heard a noise outside, and Pat got up and opened the curtains. There was a donkey with his lips almost against the window. He must have been as startled as us because he cut loose with Hee-Haw, Hee Haw, and it was loud enough to shake the house! We recognized the donkey as the pet of the Noble family that lived several houses up the hill from us.

We had been visited by the donkey a couple of times before. We had a Shetland pony for the kids that we kept in a corral next to our back fence. In the previous visits, the donkey had come down the back fence-line, but, for some reason, this time he had come down the street. I had my jeans on and was wearing flip-flops or thongs or shower shoes or whatever you call them. I went out to the shed and got a lead rope and came back and snapped it onto the halter the donkey was wearing. I headed for the street to take him home, and he was well-mannered and led on a slack rein, walking beside my shoulder.

We got to the street and started up the hill but it was tough going for me. The asphalt streets in our development had been sealed a couple of days before, and a fine layer of sand had been spread on them. The footing wasn’t that good, and I kept scooping up sand with my flip-flops. I was relieved when we got up the hill to the Noble’s house. However, about this time, the donkey must have realized he was almost home and he snorted and whirled around and started running back down the hill. I dug in my heels and yelled “Whoa” as I held onto the end of the lead rope. It was a wasted effort! That donkey was going downhill as fast as he could go, and I was out on the end of that rope with my heels dug in and looking like a water skier on a slalom course. Our wild ride finally got us to the bottom of the hill and as we got to our house, I could see Pat in her pajamas and housecoat out in the front yard pointing at us and laughing like a crazy woman. The donkey stopped and I looked back up the hill, and here comes Noble, laughing. He was kind enough to say that he had seen the donkey escape but had to get dressed before he could come out. As you have read, I got no respect at all. It may have been caused by the donkey, but I made a complete ass of myself.

Dave Thomas
7/13/2014 originally
Reposted on 04/13/2020

Mornings: Daybreak

We recently had a rainy November morning. Any rainy morning in Southern California is a happening. I’m thinking now of a rainy morning that occurred many years ago, probably 1965 or 1966.

It was 6:00 am, and I had shaved, dressed, and had breakfast, and was ready to go out and feed the horse. The horse was a three-year-old bay filly named Sweetie. I know it sounds like a corny name, but she was so mellow, I couldn’t call her anything else. There was a gentle rain falling, so I pulled on my boots and windbreaker, grabbed a flashlight, and went out the back door. Sweetie was standing in her shed, looking out the door, and watching me cross the backyard. As I slipped through the fence, she came up and nuzzled my arm. (You can’t kid me. I know that your greeting is 25% that you are looking for companionship, and 75% that you want to be fed.)

We walked to the shed, and I entered the door on the storage side, and picked up an old coffee can and filled it with a couple of inches of sweet mix. I took the sweet mix into Sweetie’s side of the shed, and dumped it into the feed box. She went after it like a kid going for ice cream. I had to be careful in how much I gave her because the stuff could make her high as a kite- like a kid on a sugar high. I took the can back to the storage side, and I grabbed an armload of alfalfa and brought it back over and dumped it in the manger. Sweetie went after it right away, and I started stroking her neck and talking to her. As she munched on her hay, she moved a little and pressed her shoulder up against me.

It was warm and dry in the shed, and we were comfortable with each other, so I continued to stroke her neck and talk to her while she had her breakfast. After a few minutes of this pleasant interlude, I headed back to the house. Nothing big, just two beings sharing a moment before starting the day.

I exchanged my boots for dress shoes, and the windbreaker for a sport coat, kissed my wife, and left for work.

Dave Thomas

3/12/2020